


Don't Slow Me Down

by Oodles



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I, Dark Souls III
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drugs, Football, M/M, Smoking, Trans Gwyndolin, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 14:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16578350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oodles/pseuds/Oodles
Summary: Nameless doesn't know how to be the good son anymore. A senior in college: football doesn't feel like enough and he can't keep a girlfriend and his grades are slipping and his little brother is a beautiful disaster and why can't he stop thinking about Ornstein?





	Don't Slow Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> Thought I'd return to my roots on this one. Have a college au for your troubles.

Football practice. The locker room. Cliche. 

He’s changing, and trying not to think, sweaty and feeling kind of gross, but there’s a too-loud laugh that he recognizes from down the bench.

Nameless glances over to see Artorias punching Ornstein in the shoulder. “Fuckin’ ridiculous.”

Ornstein’s gaze cuts over to Nameless. “Fearless leader over there. We ran right through them.”

Ciaran snickers, arms crossed, already back in her regular outfit. No one cares about her standing there against the lockers while they get into civilian clothes. Nameless gives the group half a smile. 

“What did I say at the beginning of term?”

Ciaran, Artorias and Ornstein all offer salutes. “We’re the goddamn top.”

Nameless pulls his shirt off and changes it for a new one, fast, all the while wondering who’s watching him. Wondering, hoping, regretting.

There’s nothing he can do.  

 

They’ve known each other now since middle school. They called themselves the four knights, and he was the King. It was a dumb game, the kind of kid shit that only shit kids can come up with. They gave each other nicknames and challenges and if they didn’t follow through, well, fuck them. It just went on for so long, no one questioned anymore when they got an anonymous text in the dead of night instructing them to go out and set a fire. They just did it. 

And that was that. 

‘Cause you’re a fucking bitch if you don’t. You have to outdrink Gough if you don’t, and lord knows you don’t fuck with Gough and alcohol. Guy’s got a liver blessed by god and you’ll never outdrink that bastard. They liked to joke about it, until Ornstein said no once and almost wound up in the hospital from alcohol poisoning, and thank the fucking gods Gough and Artorias knew how to deal with that shit, otherwise they would have never kept the game up.

Nameless still thinks about it from time to time. 

Ornstein, vomiting his guts out that first year. Nameless sat with him alone for a time, and Ornstein just hugged the toilet like it was his best friend, mumbling about how it was too goddamn cruel, y’know? And Nameless didn’t know at all. He spent about five minutes trying to get it out of him, but all he met was a drunken wall, so he stopped trying at all. Ornstein passed out on Gough’s couch and Nameless thought he looked kind of cute when he wasn’t worrying about bullshit like a cruel dare or his liver failing. 

Nameless spread a blanket over Ornstein and left before he said anything stupid. Gough took care of the poor guy, and then they moved on to the next dare. Stupid small things until they built back up to the understanding that Gough was reigning champ and you were stupid to try and challenge him. Ornstein was proof. 

Something about a guy. Nameless didn’t quite know. 

 

-

 

Sometimes, Nameless finds himself doing a double take. He says Ornstein is his MVP. Quarterback, right? Makes sense, he carries the team. Nameless is the unofficial coach, but Ornstein is the one out there doing the heavy lifting. 

Ornstein’s gay.

Nameless knows. 

He’s not. Never has been. 

Gwyn laid the rules out pretty clear. If he wasn’t going to be the academic that Gwyn wanted, Nameless was to be the absolute most macho football asshole that he could be. No inbetween. Nerd or jock.  _ Pick a side, son, I’ll only love you one way or another _ . 

Ornstein looks good. On or off the field. Sometimes Nameless toyed with the idea of asking Ornstein for advice on what the fuck to wear, but he never could bring himself to ask directly. It always wound up being this group activity: Nameless taking a girl out and everyone crowded into his tiny-ass dorm room to help him pick out clothes, and it always wound up about the same. Jeans and a shirt. That was his ‘nice’ outfit. Anything but sweats or basketball shorts. 

He couldn’t be as fashionable as his brother, after all.

Gwyndolin knew how to make an impression. He fucked with all this ‘fashion’ and made it look easy and Nameless just looked at him and worried. Someone was bound to try and take advantage, but Gwynevere was all about their little brother making his own mistakes, so Nameless tried to stay out of it, even when he saw his freshman brother wearing a weird cut-out dress thing. His brother in a dress was enough for Gwyn to have a heart attack about, so Nameless kept his own fucked up thoughts to himself. Gwyn had enough problems. Nameless didn’t want to be one of them. 

Nameless figures running a school is hard enough for his dad. 

But Ornstein.

Sometimes after a hard practice it’s not that unusual to look at someone and think _ damn yeah fuck _ and not get caught up in it. It’s just adrenaline, it’s just a well fought win, and sometimes Ornstein looks good when he’s smiling through hard breaths. That’s what Nameless tells himself when they’re in the locker room and Ornstein is shimmying into his pants and Nameless is vaguely hard watching him. 

He’s got no excuse off the field.

It’s been half a year since he had sex. It was with a girl. He doesn’t much care to remember their ‘relationship’. By the end of it, neither of them had any interest in each other and were just kind of fucking out of boredom. She broke it off. Nameless didn’t put up a fight. When Ornstein asked him afterwards if he’d be okay, Nameless gave this weird little smile and said,  _ yeah, man, I don’t know why I let it go on so long _ .

From time to time, Ornstein shows up to hang with Nameless and someone else, and Nameless watches him walk up to them and thinks,  _ damn yeah fuck _ , and then shelves it away in a dark corner of his mind that he forces to gather cobwebs. If he spends too much time over there, something bad will happen. It’s just that Ornstein is brave. Nameless never quite made it to the stage where he wanted to take chances with what he wore. He’s in this for a career and who the fuck cares what clothes he’s wearing? Football players don’t need to be stylish. 

It’s after their first scrimmage of the term. Of course, their team won. He and Ciaran are at a noodle shop in town waiting for the others. Ornstein and Artorias had something for their class that ran a little late, so they show up together off the bus. Artorias wears two colors: black and blue. That’s it. Not that he looks bad, he’s got his thing, but that’s just him. 

Ornstein’s got this undercurrent of flash. He wears a gold band on his right ring finger. On any other guy it would look stupid, but on him it’s kind of subtle and winds up getting Nameless to look at Ornstein’s fingers for too long half the time. Good hands. The ring was a joke  _ they _ started anyway. He just made it work for him. 

See, Ornstein wears a ring. Artorias has his nose pierced. Ciaran wears a necklace. Gough has a bracelet. Back when they started the game it was how they swore fealty to the King. 

Nameless doesn’t have a crown, but he’s got the hair which is usually tied up or under a headband or hat. 

So Ornstein’s got the ring on today, fitted pants with holes in them that show a little of his dark skin, tight shirt with a red pattern that seems like it should be from something but probably isn’t, and a jacket, there’s a name for it– bomber? Nameless isn’t sure. Point being, Nameless knows jack shit about clothes except that Ornstein wears them well. 

Artorias takes the seat next to Ciaran which puts Ornstein next to Nameless. 

“Gough coming down?” Ornstein asks. 

“Nah,” Ciaran shakes her head. “He’s coming home late.”

Artorias laughs and leans his elbows on the table. “Still can’t believe he actually got a legitimate photography gig. How often do people leave college and just get their dream job?”

Nameless smiles, but doesn’t say anything. This very question has haunted him since the end of last year. 

When Ornstein slaps Nameless’s bicep with the back of his hand, Nameless startles. “What?”

“Alright, man, you’ve been too quiet since we got back to school.”

Nameless frowns, looks up and sees everyone else giving him the same concerned look. He rolls his eyes. 

“Guys, I’m fine,” he says, hands up in the air. 

“Bullshit,” Ciaran says and takes a sip of her water. 

Nameless exhales through his nose, amusement dying. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Is it your ex?” Artorias asks.

Nameless shakes his head. “Nah, seriously, guys, don’t worry. I’m fine.” The silence makes Nameless itch. He laughs. “Shit, do I have to start telling jokes for you all to lighten up?” 

“Please do,” Ciaran says, smiling. 

“I’d pay to see Nameless do stand up,” Artorias looks at Ornstein. “Yeah?”

Ornstein chuckles. “Shit yes.”

Those two are juniors and Nameless can’t forget that time last fall that they made out on the floor of his room on a dare. Gough is a bastard like that. Nameless was still dating Priscilla at the time so it was even more horrible that he couldn’t look away. 

He wonders sometimes if they still get together, Ornstein and Artorias. They never dated, but they were friends with benefits for a little while there. They both say they haven’t since the beginning of last spring, but Nameless can’t be sure. 

It shouldn’t bother him. 

It definitely shouldn’t bother him. 

Ornstein’s tongue in Artorias’s mouth.

“Not doing stand up for you idiots,” Nameless manages. 

“You would be the worst comedian,” Ciaran says. “It's for the best.”

Ornstein completely unnecessarily pats Nameless on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. Dream crushed before it even began.”

“He looked so excited too,” Artorias sighs. “Poor guy.”

Nameless shrugs. “It’s okay. I’ll just have to find something I’m good at. You know, just to pay the bills.”

“I can’t think of anything,” Ciaran says, chin propped on her hand. “Not a single thing.”

“What is he good at?” Ornstein asks, gesturing at Nameless. 

“I’ll ask Gough, hold on.” Artorias pulls out his phone. 

Nameless shrugs. “Senior year is usually when people find that out, right? Definitely not, like, a major you declare six months into your first year?”

Ornstein turns to him. “Is it science? Are you a scientist?”

Nameless fights back a dumb smile. “Nah.”

Ornstein tongues at an incisor. “Art? You like art?”

“I’m a casual admirer,” Nameless answers. 

“Here,” Ornstein shuffles through his backpack and produces a notebook and a pencil. “Draw something.”

Nameless takes it, racking his brain for some funny joke to make or clever witticism, but the pressure gets to him and he draws a stick figure. 

Ornstein nods, scratching his chin. “It’s very, uh,  _ je ne sais quois _ .” 

Nameless adds a hat to the stick man. 

“Ah,” Ornstein inches closer to him, taps his finger on the page. “So moody.”

Desperation is a fist in Nameless’s chest. He scribbles a little stick dog next to the man, wondering how long Ornstein will humor him.

Ornstein sits up and pretends to put on a pair of glasses. “A commentary on man’s best friend?”

“What about dogs?” Artorias perks up. 

Ornstein shushes Artorias and holds up his hand. “Let the man work, okay? Stop stifling him.” Ornstein touches Nameless’s arm again– he’s been doing this a lot lately, touchy shit. The kind of thing that, if a girl were doing it to him, Nameless would think she wanted something from him. “It’s okay, you can keep going.”

“Thank you,” Nameless says. “I was really feeling creatively shoehorned for a second there.”

“I know, I felt it,” Ornstein goes on. This joke is stupid and Nameless feels a rise from it regardless. 

Ciaran leans over to Artorias across from them. “Are they roleplaying or something?”

Artorias meets her, touching their heads together. “No fucking clue.”

Artorias is touchy. He always has been. He and Ciaran have that platonic kind of relationship where they kiss each other on the cheek and aren’t afraid to get close. Artorias knows he can’t pull that shit with Nameless which is why he almost never asks for anything other than a high five or a fist bump or stupid shit like that. Ciaran doesn’t fuck with contact with anyone except Artorias and her girlfriend, Dusk. 

Ornstein’s the only one who touches Nameless, really. It got really bad when they came back for this year. By bad, Nameless means  _ i don’t fucking know _ ,  _ it's just, like, connection, yknow? Just stupid friend stuff. it’s not like he’s trying to hold my hand. Not like i’ve thought about holding his hand. I definitely haven’t seen artorias and ciaran kiss each other on the cheek and wondered what it would be like to kiss ornstein.  _

Ignoring them entirely, Ornstein goes on. “But have you considered…?”

He takes the pencil from Nameless and sort of brushes Nameless’s hand aside from the drawing. Nameless only moves the necessary amount, skin sort of ringing from the contact. Ornstein scribbles a tiny mustache onto the stickman and presents it to Nameless. 

“Shit, you’re right,” Nameless says, shaking his head. “I’m a hack, man. It’s all you now.”

Ornstein looks Nameless in the eye and whispers, “You were my muse all along.” Then he draws a dick, signs his name and tears the page out. He hands it to Nameless. 

Nameless touches his chest, accepting the frayed page. “I’ll treasure it. Sell it for twice what it’s worth when you make a name for yourself.”

When Ornstein makes direct eye contact with Nameless, it’s always a bit too intense. Ornstein does that sometimes, gets real serious. “Only the deepest respect. Thanks.”

A phone  _ bings _ loudly.

“Oh, Gough got back to me,” Artorias pulls his phone out again, and everyone turns to him. “He says you’re good at fondling balls.” Nameless catches a smirk off Ornstein’s lips. Another text pops up. “Sport balls, specifically.”

Ciaran snaps her fingers. “Bocci, right? That’s what you play.”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Nameless says.

Everyone cheers for him. 

 

-

 

When Gough graduated last spring, there was a rager. Nameless, Ciaran, Ornstein, and Artorias pooled as much money as they could to buy enough alcohol to last the weekend. Gough lives in a house a few minutes off campus, and the five of them basically just offered an inn for drunken fools for three days straight. People came and went and drank and fought and fucked and Gough loved every second. He said he’d never felt closer to humanity. 

At one point, he pulled Nameless aside to have a talk. 

Nameless was deep in it already, buzzing in his skin. 

“Going into senior year,” Gough said. 

“Yeah, fuck, right?” Nameless wasn’t quite sure of the words he was saying.

Gough put his hand on Nameless’s shoulder. “You gonna be good, man? I don’t mean right now, I mean for next year.”

That sort of sharpened the world for a bit. Nameless pulled a face and tried to smile. “Uh.”

Gough nodded. “Gwyn being an asshole?”

“Not any more than usual,” Nameless admitted. “He’s got his hands full with Gwyndolin right now. Doesn’t really care what I’m up to.”

“For now,” Gough cautioned. “You can’t hide in Gwyndolin’s fabulous shadow forever.”

Nameless laughed, and felt the deep urge to keep drinking. They were on the steps to the porch watching a botched attempt at beer pong in the backyard. No one remembered why someone had dragged the ping pong table outside, but there it was. Ornstein was standing with his back to Nameless, watching that weird kid Patches play against Ciaran, a few cups deep. 

Nameless had been looking for Ornstein. That’s why he was out there, but Gough had snagged him before Nameless could reach Ornstein. 

And so they sat and started talking about shadows. The moon was up and someone had a stereo blasting from the open second floor window and Ornstein wasn’t dancing, but he was kind of moving his hips. It was enough to hypnotize Nameless just a little while he imagined the logistics of hiding himself behind his very tiny brother.

“I shouldn’t have to hide,” Nameless mumbled. 

“Nah, man, that’s what I’m saying,” Gough said, getting excited. “You should be able to do what you want and  _ be _ who you want, you know?”

Nameless nodded, eyes glued to Ornstein’s waist. He imagined putting a hand on Ornstein’s belt, feeling that little bit of rhythm. It had been long enough since Priscilla and Nameless didn’t care anymore. He’d finally started to let himself really look at other people. But Ornstein always seemed to be there when he had a wandering eye. 

Nameless didn’t dance, but maybe he could, just a little. 

“You know we’ve all got your back, right?” Gough was saying. 

Ornstein’s ass looked good. Nameless’s eyes were half shut staring at him. He nodded, not really sure what he was agreeing to, and Gough put his arm around Nameless’s shoulder. 

“Dude,” Gough said quietly. “We love you. We don’t judge.”

That was Gough, going on about love and the beauty of humanity. A fucking dreamer if Nameless had ever met one. 

“You got this, big guy,” Gough said. “Just gotta go for it.”

Nameless blinked, and then his gaze was on Ornstein’s dick. His eyes popped open wide as he realized Ornstein had turned around and was now staring him down. Gough laughed and let Nameless go. 

“Relax man,” Gough said. “You’re gonna be just fine.”

Ornstein started walking toward them. 

“Well, I’m gonna make the rounds,” Gough said, starting to stand. 

“Wait, man, wait,” Nameless turned to him. 

“You’ll be fine,” Gough said again, patting Nameless on the shoulder. 

Then Ornstein was in front of Nameless, asking if he was good.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nameless rose to his feet because he liked lording his height over others. Especially Ornstein. 

“What's up?” Ornstein asked. “Looked like you wanted to say something.”

Nameless blinked slow. The words he'd thought of saying before were escaping him. “I don't smoke.”

Ornstein raised his brow. “Uh, I know, man.”

“This guy gave me a bunch of weed, though,” Nameless went on. 

Ornstein laughed a little. “Yeah?”

“Just gave it to me and walked away,” Nameless said. “I mean, he was fucked up enough so he probably doesn't need it.”

“Right,” Ornstein nodded like this made complete sense.

“So, uh,” Nameless forced himself to meet Ornstein’s gaze. “You wanna smoke?”

Ornstein had a funny look on his face which made Nameless think he was about to get laughed at, but Ornstein said, “yeah but let's go somewhere private.”

They went back inside the house and searched for an empty room. Nameless skimmed his hand along the walls as they climbed the stairs, feeling the imperfections in the paint. The third floor bathroom was the only empty room and neither of them thought it weird to sit in the tub side by side while Ornstein rolled two joints on the edge. 

“You done this a lot?” Nameless asked. 

Ornstein shrugged. “Gough taught me how. Here.”

He handed one to Nameless and gave him his lighter. Nameless had smoked two cigarettes in his entire life. Weed was decidedly different and better but also worse. Ornstein laughed at him while he choked on the smoke but Nameless persisted anyway until Ornstein pulled it from his lips and put it to his own mouth.

“You just gotta do the most, huh?” Ornstein asked, blowing smoke in Nameless’s face. 

Nameless kind of giggled. “You know what's the worst thing about you, Ornstein?”

“No, tell me,” Ornstein said, leaning back. 

Sitting there in an empty bathtub, legs propped up with a joint in his mouth, Ornstein looked so much. Nameless was staring at him for a little too long.

“Goddamn nothing,” Nameless said finally. “Everything looks easy when you do it.”

Ornstein gave a short laugh. “Thanks. Right? That’s a thanks thing?”

Nameless started laughing, and his shoulder bumped into Ornstein’s and Ornstein leaned into it. 

“Well, your worst quality,” Ornstein started, pointing at him. “Is that you’re straight.”

Nameless snorted. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” Ornstein said with this smile on his face. 

“Silly me,” Nameless responded, attempting another drag.

He’d opened the door, but Nameless was too fucking scared to walk through it. They talked for a long time about nothing at all, the usual bullshit. Nameless just enjoyed that contact between them, telling himself it was enough. One time, Ornstein touched Nameless’s knee, and then pulled away a bit too fast. Nameless smoked until he got sleepy and fell asleep with his head on Ornstein’s shoulder. 

Later on, Nameless realized he could have done something. He could have admitted something, probably. Ornstein wouldn’t have cared, wouldn’t have judged, just like Gough said. But, then again, what if he did care? What if Ornstein cared very much that Nameless thought about touching him more than he was supposed to? What if Ornstein wanted the same?

Too much to consider. So he shut that door. 

 

-

 

Gwyndolin is a fucking menace. 

“You never see me!” his brother is shouting over the phone.

Nameless is walking to class, one of the few he bothers to show up for. “Give me a time and a place instead of demanding my presence at random times when I’m busy.”

“YOU’RE ALWAYS BUSY!” Gwyndolin is shrill in Nameless’s ear. “Okay, fine, we’re getting dinner  _ today _ . Make time for me. Your friends can spare you for an hour.”

“Fine, fine,” Nameless smiles, despite himself. “Wear something decent.”

“I…” Gwyndolin takes a breath. “Am offended.”

“Bye.” Nameless says loudly.

“Love you,” Gwyndolin sings as Nameless hangs up. 

The class is creative writing. Ornstein saves Nameless a seat beside him. His advisor, Seath, told Nameless he  _ had _ to take  _ some _ classes, so Ornstein suggested taking a bullshit one with him. Nameless thought it was a good idea, but the problem came about that Ornstein turned out to be a great writer. Nameless just forced himself to meet the bare minimum. It was bad enough that he was a senior, but when your father was President of the University, no one really had the balls to force Nameless to try anymore. 

Ornstein and Nameless pass notes throughout the class. 

_ what are you doing tonight? _

_ dinner with the little _

_ tori gave me tix to a show in the city cuz he can’t go _

_ what time? _

_ doors at 8. electro shit. _

_ sounds fun _

Ornstein gives him a look.

_ do u wanna go? _

_ fuckin yes idiot _

Ornstein nods his head. 

 

-

 

When Nameless gets home to change for dinner, Gwyndolin is leaning on the wall outside his door. 

“What, did you think I was gonna bail?” Nameless asks with a smile.

“No, I came to make sure you weren’t going to show up in athletic shorts,” Gwyndolin says back.

“Wow, love you too.” Nameless unlocks the door and kicks it open for his brother.

Gwyndolin is in these high waisted pants with some kind of flouncy shirt tucked into it, bags in his hands. His chest is flat today. Gwyndolin explained binding to Nameless once and he just kind of nodded along because he wasn’t entirely used to everything back then. Nameless was the first person in the family Gwyndolin told about being trans, and it took Nameless a while to be flattered by that fact. The pronoun thing was tricky at first, but Gwyndolin smacked him enough times to drill it into his brain. 

“Are you seeing your friends after dinner?” Gwyndolin asks.

Nameless starts nodding, then stops. “Uh, kinda. Ornstein invited me to a show.”

“No Artorias?” Gwyndolin asks. “Isn’t he the musical one?”

Nameless laughs. “Yeah, but he’s got something going on.”

“Well… then I’m glad I went shopping.”

Gwyndolin starts pulling clothes out of his bags and laying them out on Nameless’s bed. 

“Did you literally buy me clothes?” Nameless asks, sagging. 

“I will  _ literally _ not be seen with someone so unstylish. Honestly, do you even own more than one pair of jeans?”

Nameless sighs, staring at Gwyndolin’s haul. If he weren’t so proud, he’d admit that he kinda likes the clothes. Shit Artorias or Ornstein would wear, which makes him feel a little weird, like he’s stepping on their thing. Then again, he’s sure they’ll understand the second he says it’s Gwyndolin’s fault. 

“Yeah, alright, alright, let’s get this over with.”

“A concert, huh?” Gwyndolin asks. “What kind of music? Standing room?”

Nameless shrugs. “Ornstein just said it was  _ electro shit _ .”

“Okay, so you want to look cool but not too cool, and you’ll definitely be sweating in a crowd.” He hands over a pair of much nicer jeans then Nameless has ever owned, a dark grey shirt with a v-neck which Nameless glares at.

“Really?” he asks. 

“My brother,” Gwyndolin says. “My  _ dearest _ brother.” He punctuates the words with a clap of his hands as he speaks. “Please just admit that you have great tits and let’s move on.”

“Christ, don’t ever say that to me again,” Nameless says. “I know you’re trying to do me a solid, but I just don’t think I can handle you saying shit like that.”

“You are clueless, as always,” Gwyndolin sighs. “Just put the damn clothes on.”

Nameless grumbles as he leaves for the bathroom. He pouts at his reflection in the mirror. The shirt is tight. Very very tight. He slinks back into his room, sighing. 

“You look so good!” his brother shouts. “Oh my goodness. Ornstein’s gonna be like  _ whoa _ .”

Nameless’s eyebrows cinch together. “What do you… mean?”

“I mean the boy has good style and he’s going to be surprised. Now put the jacket on and then we’re off to dinner.”

He gives Nameless a motorcycle jacket and shoves him out the door. Even with all the pomp and circumstance, Nameless and Gwyndolin have a nice dinner. Gwyndolin is still all manic nerves about his first year at college, and his first year out and openly using male pronouns. Nameless tells him that if he’s uncomfortable, he can always hang with him and the others. Gwyndolin smiles and nods, but Nameless knows he wants to try to make it on his own first with his own crew. 

Nameless will never shake that overprotective feeling he gets when Gwyndolin looks anxious. 

“Just tell me if Dad is being a dick to you,” Nameless says as they leave the restaurant.

Gwyndolin smiles, adjusting hs denim jacket. “No, he’s just uncomfortable with everything. I think he’ll come around. Maybe.”

Nameless puts his arm around Gwyndolin. “I got your back if you need it.”

“Thank you,” Gwyndolin smiles, all delicate features. Nameless still marvels sometimes at the fact that they’re related. The only thing they have in common is the color of their pale hair and their complex feelings about their father. 

“Have fun at your show,” Gwyndolin says as Nameless drops him off at his dorm. He hands Nameless a hair tie and shuts the door to the car. The tie is silver, a little flashy, but it won’t really show on Nameless’s hair anyway. He absently puts it on his wrist.

Nameless remembers what he is up to again. A concert with Ornstein. They’ve never been to a show just the two of them. Artorias is always the one leading the concert brigade and Nameless only ever went with the whole gang at once. Concerts weren’t exactly where he shined. He always felt too fucking big and he hated dancing. 

Still, this might be fun. At least Ornstein wouldn’t make him do anything stupid. 

He picks Ornstein up outside the old dorm building, the one where he and Artorias live. Nameless has a room in the building with all the other bored seniors, but he unofficially lives in Gough’s house as well. Gwyn forbade him from moving in with Gough at the beginning of the year, telling him he had to remain on campus or his grades would suffer. Nameless took the dorm room, and then proceeded to spend every other night at Gough’s place anyway. What Gwyn didn’t know and all that. 

Ornstein knocks on the window, startling Nameless from staring into space. He unlocks the doors and Ornstein slides in, doing a double take. 

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Ornstein asks. 

Nameless feels white hot embarrassment. “Gwyndolin made me, I swear.”

Ornstein chuckles, staring at Nameless. “Ah, yeah that makes sense.” Nameless puts the car in drive, face still warm, and Ornstein sticks his hands in his pockets. “Looks good, man.”

Nameless’s hand slips off the gear shift and he quickly tries to recover. “Thanks.”

“It’s a shame you’re eighteen sizes bigger than Artorias and I or we could lend you clothes,” Ornstein goes on. “God knows we can’t get you into a clothing store.”

“You saying you want to dress me?” Nameless asks, trying to make a joke and realizing how awkward that phrasing was. 

Ornstein snorts. “I want you to look good. It’s alright, though, clearly the little’s got it on lock. You should trust Gwyndolin with your wardrobe more often.”

Nameless tries to focus on the road as they leave campus. Tries. “Yeah.”

“Wear that jacket more often,” Ornstein instructs. “And don’t listen when Ciaran makes fun of you. It looks slick.”

Nameless turns his head away from Ornstein just enough to hide the smirk on his face. “Yes sir.”

Ornstein slides down lower in the seat and props a foot up on the dash. Black and gold sneakers don’t look good on anyone else. Nameless stares at the road and Ornstein fiddles with the radio. 

“You know the people playing?” Nameless asks. “Are they good?”

“It’s funny,” Ornstein says. “Never fucking heard of ‘em. But I trust Tori with this stuff. He wouldn’t have gotten tickets if it wasn’t good.”

Nameless nods. Fantastic. He’s walking into this completely blind. The venue is in the city proper and he has to park in a garage which always makes him nervous. 

“Even your car is eighteen sizes too big,” Ornstein says as Nameless maneuvers into a tiny spot.

Nameless starts to grin. “You are practically begging me to make tasteless dick jokes.”

“You were doing so well,” Ornstein says, leaning his head back. “I was trying to see how long you’d last.”

Nameless puts the car in park and stares out the front window. He takes a deep breath. 

“Is this when you assure me you can last longer than that?” Ornstein asks, taking his jacket off. 

Nameless watches him a little too closely. “Something like that.”

“You talk a big game,” Ornstein says, opening the door. “All talk talk talk.”

Nameless opens his own door. This sounds like flirting. His nerves are all amped up like he’s chasing something fun. It’s been a while, that’s all. Been a while since he got playful with someone. Maybe Ornstein’s frustrated too and that’s why he’s pushing back. Nameless tries to ignore a little spark going off in his stomach. 

Quickly, he has to get this back to normal, but all he can think of are dumb lines he’d usually put on someone he was trying to take home. Maybe it doesn’t matter. It’s kind of a relief to get these jokes out of his system and get something in return. Even if it won’t go anywhere.

“You’re gonna wanna leave your jacket behind,” Ornstein says when they’re both out of the car. “You’re gonna sweat it off otherwise.”

Nameless shoves it back in the car, the self consciousness returning in a rush. He forgot about the shirt.

“Shit,” Ornstein says.

“I know,” Nameless starts as they walk to the stairs. 

“Gwyndolin knows what he’s doing,” Ornstein says. “My compliments.”

The words die in Nameless’s throat.  _ Don’t fucking flirt _ , he tells himself, but it’s too damn easy.

“You think I look good?” Nameless asks with a smug smile. 

“Shove it,” Ornstein says. “I’m not gonna say you’re hot, so stop trying.”

Nameless leans down toward him. “You could say other words. I won’t complain.”

“How about conceited?” Ornstein smiles up at him. “Smug? Asshole?”

“I was thinking more like, handsome, dashing, those kinds of words,” Nameless suggests. “Something to represent my good looks and charm.”

“I’ll give you half of that sentence,” Ornstein says, fishing out two tickets from his back pocket. “I’ve yet to see you be charming.”

Nameless grins. “Hah! He caves and admits I’m gorgeous.”

Ornstein smirks. “So humble in victory.”

“That’s my middle name.”

They laugh as they cross the street to the music hall. They wind up waiting in line for twenty minutes, talking bullshit, the weird flirting dying down in the presence of other people. When they get inside the dim hall, Nameless fishes out his wallet and looks at Ornstein. 

“Mind if I get a drink?”

“Nah,” Ornstein waves his head. “Go with God.”

Nameless laughs and makes sure to go to the far end of the bar so he can order two drinks without anyone seeing he’s buying for someone underage. Ornstein doesn’t turn 21 until next summer. He hunts down Ornstein, who has already scrubbed off the black X on the back of his hand, and gives him a plastic cup. They toast and drink, sort of staring at each other in a silent dare to keep chugging. Nameless beats him but not without a drop of beer rolling off his chin.

“Fucking slob,” Ornstein chides, crushing the plastic cup in his hand. He takes Nameless’s empty cup and finds a trash can, then motions for Nameless to follow him into the crowd. They wade forward, Ornstein quickly cutting through to a spot close to the stage, but off to the side enough that Nameless doesn’t feel like an asshole for blocking anyone’s view. Ornstein turns back to him. 

“You have to stand behind me,” he says. “Otherwise someone’ll get pissed.”

Nameless shuffles up behind Ornstein, their feet bumping, but neither of them say anything. The lights dim and the opener comes on, playing loud hype music to get everyone all riled up. Nameless is mostly just watching Ornstein, who mostly stays still, occasionally tilting his head at a transition. It’s a high-key college party set list. This isn’t what they're here for. Nameless doesn’t mind the music but he does wish he had another drink to ease the damn knot in his stomach. 

The opener says his goodbyes and introduces the headliner. Ornstein shifts, letting his arms fall to his sides. The DJ takes her place at the table and starts up some much better, more complex beat. 

Nameless’s phone goes off. He thinks about ignoring it, but the ever present thought in his head is  _ Gwyndolin needs something _ , so he checks the screen. 

Gough. 

Fuck.

Nameless reads the text, fear rising up. 

_ dance with someone _

He makes a face and shoves the phone back in his pocket. Too late to pretend he didn’t see it in time, Gough’s probably seen that Nameless has read the message. Scratch that. Nameless wants three more drinks before he’s ready for this dare. 

Nameless scans the room as the crowd starts to sway and bounce. 

Ornstein is nodding his head, body starting to move with the music. Nameless lets another song go by in indecision when Ornstein turns back to him. 

“You good?” he asks. 

Nameless makes a face like he heard a bad joke and doesn’t know how to laugh. He leans down so he doesn’t have to shout. “I feel a little awkward.”

“You need to leave?” Ornstein asks. 

“Nah, nah,” Nameless shakes his head. “Just kinda wish I knew how to dance.”

Ornstein raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“I feel like a sore thumb,” Nameless says, face heating up. He would never in a million years pull this stunt. He wants to sucker punch Gough, but that’s against the rules too. You can’t fight Gough, and you can’t tell anyone you’re just doing something for a dare. It’s gotta be genuine, because if you spoil it, that’s a forfeit. 

“Just nod your head,” Ornstein says. “No one’s going to pick a fight.”

“Come on,” Nameless says, putting a hand on Ornstein’s waist, everything inside him all lit up. “Just show me a little.”

“Alright, but stop leaving room for Jesus. If you’re gonna dance with me, you have to get a little closer.”

Nameless steps forward, keeping one hand on Ornstein. This isn’t real. Ornstein reaches behind him for Nameless’s other hand, bringing it to his hip. Flirting is one thing– dancing is an entirely different plane of existence. Ornstein starts gently guiding Nameless in a little swaying dance, hardly keeping time with the music anymore. Nameless’s groin is at Ornstein’s back and, goddamn, they have never been this close. Nameless tries not to think too much about his own dick as they move. He feels fucking tall with Ornstein’s back to his chest, but Ornstein isn’t even that much shorter than him. He can feel Ornstein’s ass. It’s good.

The music is smooth, not too choppy like some of the shit Artorias likes. This is more Ornstein’s speed. It sounds like velvet and of course Nameless is thinking about soft skin, wondering if Ornstein is soft. Probably not. He’s probably a little rough. Nameless has never really had rough before. Not like that. He’s the one who’s supposed to fill that role. He’s supposed to like soft and curved. Ornstein is made of straight lines and angles but it still feels good pressed up against Nameless. Anything would after a few dry months, though, right? All he’s had are desperate thoughts and his own hand since spring. Who the fuck cares if Ornstein has showed up in Nameless’s head while he’s sweating it out by himself? No one. Because no one knows. 

It’s just something about him. 

It doesn’t matter. 

He’s fucking hot. 

They’ve been dancing for a while, pretty casual, back to chest, when Ornstein leans up and tells Nameless he has to piss and darts off through the crowd. Nameless is ten degrees colder. He’s also gotta pee. Fucking shitty beer. 

 

Nameless doesn’t have the courage to initiate another dance when Ornstein gets back so the rest of the show they stay a little bit separate. It’s still good music, but damn if there isn’t an echo of Ornstein against him. 

When they get back to campus, Ornstein goes back to Gough’s with Nameless, the man himself having just gotten home a little earlier. Artorias is there too, roughing up Sif’s fur. The dog is on her back, begging for belly rubs. She wags her tail but doesn’t get off the floor. That dog loves Artorias more than anything else in the world. 

“Yo!” Artorias waves. “Was it awesome?”

“It was pretty damn good,” Ornstein says, taking a seat on the right side of the couch. Nameless takes the left. Gough is in his favorite armchair, long legs propped up on the coffee table. 

“Yeah?” Gough asks, all smiles. “Nameless, you have a good time?”

“Sure did,” Nameless says, playing it off. 

“You dance with anyone?” Gough asks like he’s just giving Nameless shit, like he always does. 

“I did,” Nameless says, straightening his posture. 

“Oh?” Gough perks up. “Was she hot?”

Nameless tries not to give a crazed laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, she was hot.”

Gough looks at Ornstein. “Is he giving me bullshit?”

“Nah, I saw it myself,” Ornstein says. “And, yeah, she was fucking hot. Great ass.”

“Yeah, smokin’,” Nameless says, looking to Ornstein. “She was all over me.”

What are they talking about?

“I’m impressed,” Gough says, tipping a fake hat. “Props.”

“Did you get her number?” Artorias asks, excited. “Does she go here?”

“Nah,” Nameless says. “It was just a moment, you know? I didn’t want to press. Never know when you’re going to spoil something.”

His voice is a little too genuine. 

“Yeah,” Ornstein nods his head like he knows exactly what Nameless isn’t saying.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this story in my docs for a long time now and this is not the end by any means, but I have to finish another story before I can really dedicate my time to this one. That being said, if this little bit goes over well, I will try to get back to it as fast as I can. I've loved this WIP for a while and I keep coming back to it, so it must be a sign that it's worth sharing, right?  
> @oodleswrites


End file.
